


people killing, people dying; children hurt, children crying

by thegirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Child Murder, Dark!Lyanna, I'm not fucking around read the tags, Infanticide, Murder, Tower of Joy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 04:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4947358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirl/pseuds/thegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the ASOIAF Kinkmeme prompt: dark!Lyanna, Jon (tw: infanticide) </p>
<p>"No one shall have this child but me. No one."</p>
            </blockquote>





	people killing, people dying; children hurt, children crying

“Six minutes old,” Lyanna croons to her squirming, bloody newborn even as she feels the life begin to leech out of her, as she’d somehow knew it would for months. She was always right about such things. “Six minutes old and already men are dying in your name.”

The baby lets out a little bleat, and his little eyes that are caked in fluid and blood squint up at her, as grey as a thundercloud. There are a few, tiny wisps of dark hair growing out of his head, and Lyanna places two fingers on his chest, and feels the little heartbeat pumping beneath her fingers.

_Bah-bum, bah-bum, bah-bum._

There is a shout from below, a scream, a falling body, but Lyanna doesn’t care about them.

“Hello darling,” she greets her child, tears she hadn’t permitted to fall rolling down her cheeks. The baby – her baby – holds out a single tiny fist towards her, rolls of fat clinging to his little arms and his pudgy belly and chubby cheeks, “I’m your mummy.”

He mewls at that, and kicks weakly. He is very warm to her skin that is growing ever cooler, and she thinks she can feel the blood rushing away from her head and down towards where all the blood is pumping out too fast.

_Bah-bum, bah-bum, bah-bum._

She can hear her own pulse pounding in her ears and she forces herself to focus on her baby’s face. A sword clangs against another, and the sound of steel meeting steel clangs around her head. There won’t be much time now.

“Jon,” she whispers, and she likes to think that the infant’s head movement meant he knew that was his name, even if he couldn’t know that was his name, he was eight minutes old, “my little prince. My king. My darling. Do you want to go on an adventure?”

The baby blinks and hushes down, and her arms become too weak to hold him by herself, so she lets him rest against her bloody, pulsing stomach. “We’ll fly through the sky on dragonback,” she tells him, tracing a figure of eight pattern on his forehead almost like it was an unholy baptism, “and catch snowflakes on our tongues on top of the wall. We’ll go to Essos and ride with the Dothraki and explore the ruins of Valyria. We’ll feast with a prince of Pentos, and sail with the ironborn over unexplored seas.”

_Bah-bum, bah-bum, bah-bum._

Sudden silence made the tears run faster down Lyanna’s cheeks than before. Robert’s men were coming, if they had won, to dash her baby’s head to pieces like they had Rhaegar’s other babes, or if the Kingsguard had won, they would take her child far away across a sea and leave her behind to die in this tower, teaching her son she was a whore and a seducer and a mistress.

It was better this way. Her head began spinning as she took all of her strength that remained and pushed one of the throw cushions that the wetnurse had brought from Starfall to make her more comfortable over Jon’s nose and mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she rocks him as his tiny arms and legs kick, and hit, and feel no more painful than a rose petal would brushing against her skin. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t know how long she holds the pillow down, but when she takes it off Jon’s tiny, half-cast gaze is glassy and unfocused. She presses her fingers to his chest and feels no pulse of life. “Look after him,” she tries to tell the Old Gods, who are not here, but there are winter roses from home, from the Godswood, from Winterfell, from the home that neither she will never see again, so she grasps desperately for them as her vision tunnels and prays.

Pounding footsteps hurry up the stairs, and Lyanna thinks dazedly in her last moments that perhaps Jon has come back, perhaps they are both dead but alive all at once, perhaps the gods have been kind, but by the time Eddard Stark throws open the door to his sister’s gilded cage, both she and the baby are dead, and there are dead, black rose petals falling from her open palm.


End file.
